


Asphyxiation

by HopeForTheWitch



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-17
Updated: 2012-04-17
Packaged: 2017-11-03 19:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeForTheWitch/pseuds/HopeForTheWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Erik decides the helmet is flawed. He has one reconstructed that allows telepaths to send thoughts to him, but denies them the ability to control his mind."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Asphyxiation

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011. Mild slash is mild/implied.

 

**i.**

The first time it happens, he's not even sure it's real.

The new metal framing his skull feels unfamiliar, an alien presence he has to get used to. It will bend to his will, eventually, will feel like an extension of his body in a matter of days, but for now he holds back a grimace as he listens impatiently to Raven and Angel's quiet chatter at the dinner table. Every now and then, Emma joins in with her sharp comments and Azazel merely chuckles in response to either woman.

It's early still, yet Erik stands, patience run out. “Good night,” he says and he leaves the room without another word, walking from corridor to corridor, up the stairs, and then another corridor until he finds his own bedroom. It's a disfigured copy of the one room he'd called his own for months ( _before everything fell apart and he lost more than just a bedroom, muchmuchmore_ ).

Sometimes he finds himself just standing there in the doorway, looking at the cheap surrogate that's build on memories of contentment, and he notices how the wooden bed is a few shades off. The rug beneath it is a tad too long, circles instead of curved lines. The fabrics are either too thick or too thin, too ragged or too smooth.

It's all wrong.

Erik sits himself down in the leather chair in front of the window, feet propped up on the low table, and he stares at a highway that shouldn't be there, but is. It used to be quiet, back home, his window looking out over a neglected part of the vast garden. Only one person ever visited the fish in the pond, and he did so every evening at eight. Erik knows this, because he made sure he was there to watch.

He slowly relaxes, vice like grip loosening their hold. One hand comes up to support his head as the memories replay themselves in his mind. They are grainy, hard edged with what has happened, and some of the feeling has lost its intensity, yet it lulls him to sleep as easily as a mother's lullaby.

_You would've been proud, I think._

Barely awake, the stray thought slips through his own unnoticed until it has settled deep into his stomach. It doesn't alarm him, and it won't for a long time. Erik just closes his eyes and pushes it away. It helps, for a while, until the next one comes along.

_I wish you didn't walk away._

Exhaustion strips Erik of defences, and sudden regret washes over him, pressing hard until his shoulders hurt with the weight of it. Because he did. He walked away without ever looking back. “'I know,” he mumbles, mind numbing quickly now that sleep is coming next, “'m sorry.”

That night, Erik dreams of dead fish in a room that isn't his.

 

****

**ii.**

Erik is a fighter, and he's not used to waiting. War is around the corner, but the fights won't be coming for a while. He knows this, and he knows war like he does the back of his hand. War isn't so much offense as it is a combination of preperation and defense, he thinks. He is busy fine-tuning his control, not arrogant enough to sit still and only watch the new recruits train for the inevitable.

Weeks go by, and for the first time in a long while, he feels properly prepared to take on anything that is thrown at him. He feels fully alive, and the metal framing his head pulses in time with his heart, humming pleasantly. Erik sleeps better, now that it is fully a part of him, and sometimes he isn't sure where the helmet ends and his skull starts. He doesn't mind. It's safer this way.

He's working on multitasking today, sitting indian style on a wooden board that only has one thin strip of metal underneath it. He concentrates on hovering the wood about a foot above the concrete. In front of him, nails and screws are dancing feverishly, attacking unseen enemies in the air. Erik only notices they're swirling around in a set pattern when he lowers the tools so he can look down on them. He feels sick, all of a sudden, and wills them to do something else, maybe form a solid something, _anything_ , because eight is just so –

_They're alone in the dark, on a bed they didn't mean to end up on. It's just that Erik thought Charles was joking when he said he didn't like thunder, so he gave him a gentle push, shoved him with a chuckle on the bed. Soon realised that it was not, in fact, meant as a way to entertain. Charles actually shivered, and Erik couldn't stand the sight of that, so he crawled on the bed and cradled him close. No words are uttered, are needed, and they wait until the thunder quiets, and only the harsh rain is left. Erik waits for the awkwardness to settle in, knows it will come, if not now, then tomorrow. Wishes that this won't become just a memory that'll be cherished, yes, but never spoken about. In the background, he hears the clock in the study striking twelve. He feels a finger start tracing a pattern on his chest, and when he closes his eyes and concentrates on it, he finds himself smiling._ Keeping track, are we? _Because Erik is. And tonight marks his eighth month at the mansion._

– painful.

 

****

**iii.**

It happens every now and then. Sometimes it's just snippets of a conversation, and sometimes he knows it's directed specifically at him. At first he thinks Charles knows his new helmet lets other people's thoughts in, and is taunting him with updates on the kids and how they are getting ready to stop him. Erik is considering replacing the helmet, until one afternoon, when he's sitting in his study, reading, and the thoughts he receives take on a different direction.

_I waited for you, do you know that? I'd hoped for you to turn around, to come back, thought you just needed time and then we'd agree to disagree._ _It's a ridiculous thought, I know. You'd probably laugh at me if you knew. Or you'd roll your eyes. Or both._

Erik looks down at the book, then slowly closes it and puts it away. He stands, then sits again, then stands once more and starts pacing. He swallows, desperately wants to cover his ears, but he knows it's no use. This is impossible to block, but if there happened to be a way, he sure didn't know of it.

_Or maybe I really didn't know you at all. A mind can still mask its true nature, you know. I feel I don't know anything anymore, Erik. Why I am still_ _doing this, when I know for certain you'd never take that helmet off again if you could help it. Then again, I'm feeling a bit sentimental today._

Erik snatches the book from the table and sits down on the carpet. Opens it on a random page and starts reading. It's a page he's read only minutes ago, but he doesn't care. Erik needs a distraction, can't take this. Wants to rub at his ears to make it stop, it's too much, but the voice in his head is relentless, unforgiving, and perhaps, he thinks, he deserves this.

_I miss you. It's been two years. I've pretty much given up on it, but I can't help but wish for the alternative. Sure could use your help here at the_ _mansion._

He has never felt this hopeless. There is no way for him to make the other man shut up, no escape from this. He has no way to reply, no way to make it. _Go. Away_. The feelings that are interwoven with the words, seeping into his mind like poison, are all-consuming. There is so much sadness, and the betrayal he'd expected to be there. Anger, desperation, confusion. It brings his own guilt to the surface, along with all the feelings he mostly ignores. Charles' leaking emotions give them power, and suddenly it's all going downhill pretty fast.

_Just come back, Erik. Yes, alright, you won't, I know. It's just a thought, I suppose._

He hurls the book at the nearest wall, and it bounces, spine cracking. It's old, and the cover falls off once it's landed on the floor. Useless. All so completely useless. Erik scratches at his eyes, knows he's crying tears that aren't entirely his, but it's blended together seamlessly and he doesn't know anything anymore beyond the pain and this is exactly why he hates emotions because it weakens because look at him now he's a wreck and falling apart and –

_You need to come home and make it all better._

But Erik knows that nothing about this can be fixed.

 

**iv.**

Erik can't say it doesn't ever get intsense like that again. He briefly thinks about changing to a new helmet once again, but another part of him considers this to be the only thing he has left of Charles, the man who is his equal, his friend, his enemy, and he can't let it go. He needs it, even if at times he finds himself drowning in a sea of desperation and longing. He deserves it, because he hurt the man he vowed never to harm. Breaking someone else's rules is bad. Breaking your own, however, is _much_ worse.

War continues. All over the country, small fights are starting. Erik knows there is at least one or more mutants involved every single time, and he sends Emma off to recruit them and take them back home. The building she provided the Brotherhood with, is huge and very noticable. It's a security risk they have to take until their new base is ready, which is mostly build underground, hidden from view. Last Erik heard, they could move in a few months, perhaps next Spring. It is Winter, now, and everything is exceptionally cold.

The building might be large, but it is also poorly isolated. During the coldest nights, there is frost to be found on most windows, and every breath can be seen. Only yesterday evening did Erik leave a cup of steaming tea on his desk, only to find it near the state of ice this morning. He despises it, even though he has lived most his life under poor conditions. Erik should be used to it, but he isn't, not anymore, and he hates himself for that.

He blames Charles.

It seems everything always comes back to that man. Erik wonders if this is what karma's usually like, and if it is, it's truly a _bitch_ for not letting it go. Of course, it's ridiculous for blaming something abstract, and it's not like Charles has anything to do with his loss of adaption, and in the end, Erik doesn't know who to blame anymore. There's only anger left, and he's fine with that.

Anger is good. Anger is familiar. It's safe.

He's standing in front of three new faces that day, staring up at him with a mixture of fear and awe, and he's not sure which expression he likes best, but he settles on fear. The introduction is short and he keeps his talk to a minimum, listens with little interest to their stories of how they came to stand in front of him. Azazel is right next to the new recruits, a question of 'they alright, you think?' in his eyes.

Erik wants to nod at him, because the man, even though he's worked for Shaw in the past, is becoming a friend of his, albeit it slowly. Their minds think alike, sometimes, and he appreciates that. Erik has learned how to keep someone loyal, and reassurance is part of that. But Emma interrupts before she even enters the room. Erik is becoming so used to Charles' soft spoken words, that her thought is like a scream, and it's too loud for him to understand until she repeats it. _Guess who's in town!_ It drowns everything else out for a few seconds.

There's a flare of hope and disbelief rising up in his chest, and Emma strolls in at that exact moment, her winter coat sweeping behind her with an elegance he knows she worked hard on to achieve. Erik stares blankly at her, not in the mood for a guessing game but also afraid his voice will catch in his throat should he say anything. Her lips curl up. “Our dearest _blue friend_ , of course!” she says, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “Mystique let it slip by accident,” Emma continues and leaves no doubt as to how she really acquired the information. “Apparently there's a mutant there and Beast is sent to get him.”

Bitter disappointment then, and he tries to shake it off. A thought occurs to him. “And when will he leave?”

Raven barges in, jaws drawn tight. “Tomorrow evening. And I don't see how this has anything to do with us. He's no threat,” she continues. Her expression pleads him to leave Hank alone, and he understands that well enough, but he can't. He doesn't exactly have in mind what she's thinking about – probably something along the lines of torture – but he needs the mutant nevertheless. He won't hurt Hank, he _can't_. Because all this time, Charles has been talking, and feeling nervous, and anxious. Up until now, Erik didn't know what it was about, but now that he does, it's bleeding over until the worry is so strong, it's become his own.

And that, Erik decides, has to _stop_.

 

****

**v.**

He chickens out at the last moment, coat on, boots tied, scarf wrapped securily around his neck.

Raven's glare is hot on his back the entire time, but when he finally stops and turns and throws his heavy coat on the floor, her eyes are wide with wonder. She's silent as he passes her, and he's insanely glad for it. His feet are heavy as he walks the stairs, and he has some difficulty getting to the top, has to sit down for a second to catch his breath.

After a year and a half of being someone's diary, he's learned the signs that tell him another entry is coming soon. The tips of his ears tingle just a little bit, and his shoulders tense up. He really hopes it'll be a less emotional trip this time, because he isn't sure he can handle anything but words right now. He's sitting perfectly still in anticipation, and then it's like he's breathing in someone else's air. It's thicker in nature, or maybe he's just more aware of his body and the way the air travels through it, but it takes a bit of effort to draw deep breaths. His mouth dries up, because he knows this is different. Erik is warming up and he leans back against the cold wall, waiting for the words he is sure will enter his mind soon. His hands are sweaty and he rubs them over his knees, holding them there and closing his eyes.

_You'll never know how much I need you._

But by now, Erik thinks he does, and it _hurts_. He can't bring himself to go back, however, because he knows that not every emotion associated with him is based on longing and friendship and something else. He knows perfectly well there is anger, and there's a lot of it, and he's not sure even a kind hearted person like Charles can forgive someone like him. So it's much easier to not even try. It's the reason he's still on those stairs, after all.

_We would have been great, you and I._

He feels amusement, but it's distant, doesn't engulf him. Erik breathes a sigh of relief and relaxes against the wall. He realises how close he came going back tonight, and he wonders what it would have been like. How he himself would have reacted upon seeing Charles again. He imagines them sitting on a bench, outside, wrapped in multiple layers of clothing. They won't be looking at each other, not at first, and there's a silence stretching between them, until one of them snaps. Maybe Charles will casually comment on something trivial, maybe Erik will demand an answer to a question he doesn't have yet.

_We were, you know. I don't think I can ever stop._

The thoughts are a jumbled mess. It's wild and uncontrolled, and they come in shocking waves and flashes. Erik doesn't understand half of it, but he's warm and comfortable, and it's a nice break from the daily horrors he's involved in. He lets it wrap around him like a blanket, then pushes himself upright and further down the corridor, lest someone find him sitting there like the fool he knows he is for wanting more than just stray thoughts and unconsiously spilled emotions. It's terribly late for his standards – past twelve, and his routine demands him to wake at five. He'll be a wreck tomorrow, so instead of sitting in the chair he prefers whenever this happens, he lies down on the bed. The covers are soft and he pulls them up to his chin, curling up and crossing his arms in front of his throat.

_Erik. My friend. I should have told you how much I care for you. Times like these make me wonder if that would have stopped you from leaving me. You walked away from me, Erik. You walked away._

The rambling quiets for a minute or two, and Erik suspects a very drunk Charles is collecting his wits. He has this insane urge to get up, get on the nearest plane and just go. Go. He can't. He won't, because he promised himself he'd never hurt Charles again, and that will happen, he knows it will. It's inevitable, like everything seems to be, like this war that is such a curse, yet a neccesity, and he hates it all. Tonight, he wishes to go back in time, to a moment he never thought he'd regret. In his mind, he's standing there again, watching with clear eyes as Charles falls down on the sand, small dust clouds rising up in his stead. Hears the words being uttered all over again, and tonight, Erik lets the shame shatter the blanket of comfort that Charles so often provides him with.

_You walked away, and I never expected to feel so lonely without you._

He's on his own now, a storm brewing in his mind. There is no one to blame for any emotion that seeps through his veins, curses him three times over for every action. No one will ever be able to punish him as thoroughly as he will punish himself, he thinks, gasping for air as his body tenses, shivers with the cooling temperature of the room.

His bed is cold, as are the blankets. And tonight, he just wants to go home.

 

**vi.**

Winter makes room for Spring, and it lifts the atmosphere in the building. Then again, their new base is ready, and people are on the move. Erik himself is packing his belongings, however few there are. He straps a thin metal wire around two boxes, secures it, then lifts them with a simple gesture of his fingers. Satisfied, he lowers them again, doesn't even have to look anymore, has been focusing on his training the past few months. He can't afford not to, no one can anymore. The fights have been coming closer, a bit too close to him even, and Erik already lost a few men to merciless soldiers.

Just like he is assembling an army, so is the government, finally having their eyes opened.

Emma is pushing him to force their hand, but Erik knows that won't end well for them at all, right now. They aren't ready yet, even if they think they are. He saw it just three days ago, when Raven was practicing with the gun and she shot Derek in the leg instead, who is now temporarily hospitalised until one of their healers get back. Friendly fire or not, it is an unneccesary injury, and Derek is lucky he will probably recover well enough to keep fighting.

There's a lot of noise outside his bedroom, people cursing, boxes being dropped. Erik shakes his head at it, and sits down in the chair. He won't be taking it with him, hasn't sat there in a long while. Everything to do with before is pushed to the back of his mind, and he sits there without feeling anything, just watching the highway. He still hears Charles, of course, never stopped hearing him since he started wearing the damned helmet, but it's less confronting now, just mindless chatter about this or that. Erik has become an expert in ignoring the pleading.

He has only one box left to pack, and he does so slowly, emptying one drawer at a time while he listens to the telepath ramble on about a book he just finished.

_– see what is so fascinating about it. I simply can't understand why this is even published._

Erik snorts at that, his hand pausing mid-air. “You wouldn't,” he replies softly, and tries not to think too hard on that. Because nowadays, he often does. Replies to thoughts he isn't meant to hear, really. He sometimes compares what Charles is doing, to talking to someone's gravestone, updating them on a life they were missing out on. He's not dead, however, and it saddens him a little that Charles thinks of him that way.

_Of couse, knowing you, you've read this about four times._

“Of course,” Erik repeats, tone dry as he empties two other drawers and turns to his closet. “Omnipotent, are we?” There aren't many clothes there, but he'll take them all with him, carefully folding each piece before he drops them in the box. When he finally looks at the room, it's not his anymore, all his stuff packed away, leaving a bare room. He hasn't realised how many things he's collected in the past two years, but apparently it's enough to fill three boxes.

A quiet knock on the door has him turning around, mid-reply to an entirely one-sided argument. He freezes, eyes widening without his permission, and his closes his mouth with a snap. Because he hadn't closed the door while he was packing, hadn't thought of it, _stupid Charles distracting him_ , and Raven is staring at him oddly. For a second, he hopes she hasn't heard, but then her eyes are widening, and he knows she knows. Alarm bells are ringing loudly, a buzz in his ears, as she sweeps past him, into the room and looks around. “They're ready,” she tells him, like nothing is wrong.

Erik nods. “Alright,” he says, lifting the three boxes in front of him and marching down the hall with her just a step behind. Two can play this game, and he's glad she started it. He'll win, he's sure of it. He always does. There is a truck waiting for them downstairs, and he puts his belongings carefully inside. The ramp is pulled up with a creak, and the locks are secured. Erik watches the truck drive away for a minute. Emma is suddenly beside him, soft hand heavy on his shoulder as she forces him to turn.

Her smile is that of a fox, and he is sort of surprised she doesn't start hissing at him in the next second, even as her sharp fingernails threaten to tear a hole in his jacket. “Just because I can't access _your_ mind, doesn't mean that little blue-faced bitch is safe from me.” Emma bares her teeth. “We have worked our asses off for this, and all this time you've been playing _games_ with the _cripple_.” Her sentence ends on a disbelieving note, yet her eyes stay hard.

_How dare she._ Erik has the urge to defend himself, but most of all, to defend Charles, who has nothing to do with this. In a matter of minutes, everything has slipped out of his control, _she's taken it all_ , and he is boiling. It's all wrong, again, and for that, Erik wants kill her. Needs to feel her pretty little neck snap as his grip on her delicate throat closes. His jaw tightens. The only question is whether or not he'll take the time to draw it out.

The decision is taken out of his hands.

 

**vii.**

The one truck left on the vicinity explodes.

He feels the bullets approaching before he hears the actual gunshots. Emma is shouting at him to leave them be, “ _they're not meant to hit! It's a trap! They're testing us_!” but he's ignoring her. Erik has learned his lesson the hard way, however, and instead of just sending the bullets back, he lowers them into the ground. The road protests against the force of it, and the shooting ceases.

It gives him a few seconds to gather his wits and analyze the attack. The shooters are hiding in the tree line, half a mile away, and the only metal on their bodies belongs to the guns. There are only two considerably larger objects, and he knows one of them is the old well that hasn't been in use for decades, water rusty with the decaying copper bucket that's left on the bottom. He hasn't noticed the other one, until now, and he can't figure out what it is. Erik focuses on disabling the guns, squeezes them together and they end up as useless balls of junk.

“You fool!” Emma yells out of breath. Erik takes a moment to note she's panicked. “They _wanted_ you to do that! Thank you, Magneto, for letting them know you're here.”

Erik snorts. “And what will they do about it?” he mutters.

Behind them, Azazel is only a blur as he teleports away the recruits, one by one. After taking away a protesting Raven, he comes to stand between Emma and Erik. There's only the three of them left now. Erik feels the bigger object, surrounded by soldiers, being moved to the front. He takes a step back, head cocked to the side in morbid curiosity. “What _is_ it?”

And then it's too late, and it's raining glass shards.

He stares at it in horror, and his mind is drawing up a blank. It's _glass_ , he thinks numbly. His powers aren't meant for glass. Azazel teleports Emma away, but Erik is left standing out in the open, and he only manages to shield his face just in time. The inches wide pieces of glass eat through the thin fabrics of his jacket, his trousers, and with a pained groan, he turns himself around and throws himself down. His entire body is on fire, and he bites down on his tongue hard enough to bleed.

Erik rides it out, waits for it to stop, and curses when it takes entirely too long until it finally does.

It's only flashes, and it will take some time before he fully realises what happens. That it never really stops raining. That he is taken away by someone – Azazel – and dumped on a doorstep without a care. He'll remember the sudden cold, a breeze that doesn't help at all. Will remember the soft spoken words and their lack of warmth. “ _You are of no use to us like this. Make up your damned mind, then we'll talk_. ” Will think of the hands clawing at his arms, his legs, his clothes, and how it all _burns_ so much, and the laughter. What he won't remember, are the things happening after that. The second person calling to him, fingers tugging off his helmet. “ _Erik? Oh, god, what – easy! Erik, breathe, please. That's it. Good. Just breathe, alright_?” How quickly he surrenders to that voice, how easy it is for him. “ _You're safe now, Erik. You're safe_. ”

He'll never be told, either.

 

-fin


End file.
